Tattered
by perdita4321
Summary: An interpretation of what it might have been really like to be Katniss, post-war, pre-epilogue. Her thoughts couldn't have been a pleasant place to be after going through all she did.
1. Chapter 1

Tattered

_"…it looks like we're headed for a train wreck…" –unknown song_

Blue.

Peeta would have better words to describe it, I'm sure. Cerulean, indigo, simply even sky blue. I continue staring at the sky, watching a cloud shaped like those tiny rolls of cotton Effie kept in a jar on her vanity slowly drift out of sight beyond the frame of the window I stare out of. It slides off my screen, off my radar, and out of my life forever.

A light breeze causes the leaves of a nearby tree to tremble, but I don't hear a sound. Behind my window pane, sounds are strangely muted or non-existent, and while I vaguely understand the possibility that there are sounds beyond the glass, they are not real for me, here, within the glass bubble that is my world.

I hate my glass bubble. I fear my glass bubble. But most of all, I hate that I am afraid to leave my glass bubble. How weak of me.

This is the kind of day that used to be a pleasant holiday from all the other kinds of days, a reprieve from trudging through snow to check traps, and freedom of movement that I only knew when unencumbered by all the extra clothes I had to wear to keep warm on all the other kinds of days.

But today, all I feel is the pressure, the slight tightness in my ears. The geography books said it was a high pressure system ,indicative of great weather. All I feel is the weight, the indefinite heaviness of the air itself pressing down on me, making me feel like the slightest movement is like trying to swim through overly thickened gravy.

It's frustrating, and almost painful.

None of it is real. Nothing seems real anymore, and for someone like me, to whom reality was everything, this is the worst punishment of all. Nothing is real, I'm not real, and there is no reason at all for my existence. And for the thousandth time, I regret that I survived.

Did I really survive at all? Two Hunger Games and a war, and here I am. I vaguely acknowledge that the fact that I am here, staring through a pane of glass, means that I somehow survived with all my senses intact. Sometimes I can even feel my own heartbeat.

But does this really mean I survived? I exist in the world, yes, but is that surviving? Did I live?

I never gave it a thought before I was reaped. I had Prim, and I survived for the purpose of making sure she did also. As hard as it was sometimes, I knew what fear felt like, as it ran like icy liquid through my veins in the aftermath of a close call. If I died, who would take care of her? I also knew the all-consuming warmth of love, the pride I felt in her top marks at school, the admiration I felt as she worked feverishly on a broken and bleeding patient without so much as batting an eye at the things that had me retreating hastily from the house.

Now, there is nothing. Just me, watching clouds pass soundlessly by as I look on from inside my prison of glass, too numb and exhausted to even try to move against the bath of invisible gravy I was suspended in.

There was no Prim, so why bother trying?

Yes, there were moments when I want to fight it. When the pitch black anger overrides the numbness and I would do anything to feel again. Any feeling at all was acceptable.

And I would move downstairs, to the kitchen. In those times I would pick up my best blade, the one I'd used so many times to skin and butcher my prey, the prey that found its way into the stew pot, that kept us fed.

Only now, it is my own skin that blade bites through, my own blood on the counter. As if the only thing to do is to prepare myself to be consumed. It makes no sense; I have already been consumed-, by the Games, by Snow, by flames, by Coin's manipulations, by hatred, and by loss. What really makes no sense is how I have already been eaten alive, while my physical body still persists to be in this world.

And then, too exhausted to finish the job, I would stop fighting and retreat to my window once again, finding solace in the numbness I hate.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Annoyance.

**A/N - In my hesitation and haste in actually posting my first chapter ever, I did forget the standard disclaimer- the Hunger Games trilogy belongs to the amazing Suzanne Collins. I am just borrowing her characters for a while.**

**This storyline is dark, at least for a time, and makes reference to some equally dark subject matter. Trigger warnings, S/H, thoughts of suicide. Katniss is, with good reason, a complete mess after the war; I am merely trying to capture what that might look like to her.**

Chapter 2

Why do these people persist in showing up in my kitchen, uninvited and unwanted?

While I have nothing against Sae, all I really want is to be left alone. To rot.

Once upon a time, Sae was a trading partner, someone I respected for her ability to make something out of almost nothing, and for her fairness. Maybe I considered her to be a friend.

Now, she looks at me with expectation in her eyes. Presumptuous, in my opinion-so I make it a point to defy her expectations. I have nothing to say to her, or to anyone else. I am too far gone to even pretend to comply with any social convention.

I don't want to share a meal, I don't want to eat, or take a bath. I don't want to speak to anyone, for any reason.

So I don't.

From the time my father was killed in the mines, I have been expected to provide for my family. From the time I was reaped, I was expected to play the part of a Tribute, a Victor, a "Star-Crossed Lover", a larger-than-life symbol to the Rebellion, a soldier, and an executioner.

After all of that, what more could these people possibly expect of a scarred eighteen year old?

My baby sister is dead. I don't want to play anymore. I don't even want to_ be_ anymore.

I want them to leave me alone, to let me be as bat-shit crazy as I feel, with no more expectations. As childish as it may seem, this is _my_ rebellion.

I move before I even know why, picking up my game bag, placing in it what I need, hiding it under my bed, and returning to my staring-place once again. It's so easy to hide the fact that I now have an intention behind a mask of indifference. Haymitch drops by briefly, looks in on me, sees that I haven't moved from my spot, and goes away- presumably back to his bottle.

Sae is more persistent, sitting on my bed after depositing a plate of food next to me, talking to me as if I was actually responding. "I hear the boy is doing better."

Through her chatter, I have been made aware of that Peeta is alive. He is still in a hospital, in the Capital. The thought makes chills slither through me like a thousand snakes. After that day, the day I sent an arrow through Coin's heart and was imprisoned, the day he prevented me from using the nightlock pill, he lost it. According to Haymitch, he is in a room under guard to prevent him from hurting himself or anyone else.

Peeta and Prim. It is beyond me, how the two of them were even part of my life. I didn't deserve to know them; they were too good. You could feel it, just being around them. Even before the Hunger Games, before the war, they shone brightly in a world that was bleak grey even on its best days. They exuded life- it lit up their smiles and sparkled like mischief in their eyes. Of all people, they deserved to live in a kinder world, to be loved, and to have their hopes and dreams fulfilled.

Prim is dead. It is final.

I couldn't even think about Peeta, not for long anyway. I have a feeling that even the absolute worst of my nightmares couldn't come close to the horrors he'd lived through, and to what likely still features on the screen of his mind on a daily basis.

_I want to die as myself._

His words haunt me every day. Oh, how I have failed him.

There are worse things than dying. It hadn't always seemed that way, while the prospect of my family slowly dying of starvation still nipped at my heels, driving me into the woods and into the unknown to feed them. Back then, dying was the worst possible outcome.

Now, I know better. He knew it then, as he spoke those words. I am sure that if Peeta had been given a choice, he would have taken the nightlock as we sat together in our first Arena. He would have chosen that, rather than being tortured and twisted into becoming a version of himself that I know he hates.

I would have eaten the berries too, only I can't claim the same unselfish motives as he could. If I'd known then, that nothing was ever going to get any better, for anyone, I would have simply checked out, sparing myself the agony, and hopefully sparing the lives of those who died in the Rebellion. And I would have protected both of them, Prim and Peeta.

"Goodnight, Katniss," I hear Sae's departure, but give no indication of it.

After she leaves, I remain rooted, while mentally ticking off the contents of my game bag. Spare clothes. Matches. The old strip of fabric with several rusted fish hooks. Canteen.

As twilight falls, I move silently through the house, adding more. The parachute with the pearl and spile in it. The plant book. Several knives, wrapped in leather.

Then I wait until the darkness thickens into full night before slipping out like a shadow through the back door.


End file.
